


Play With Fire

by Detroitbydark



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Migs is an asshole and his girl loves it, This was supposed to be hate sex, Unprotected Sex, absence makes the heart grow fonder?, it's not, long time no see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28061280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detroitbydark/pseuds/Detroitbydark
Summary: A face from the past dredges up old memories and even older desires-or-Migs Mayfeld doesn't know the meaning of "ever again".
Relationships: Migs Mayfeld/Original Chracter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a simple hate sex one shot. I quickly realized I'm unable to write without a complicated backstory. so these two have an epic one. Does anybody else care about it, who knows? I hope ya'll enjoy my new infatuation with a sassy ex-Imperial sharpshooter!

_9 ABY_

  
“Hey Pockets.” **  
**

It’s not the long forgotten nickname that only those Adelie had served with ever used that got her attention. No, there were plenty of people who remembered her as _Pockets_ \- well, there were plenty of people that - had they been alive- would have remembered her as Pockets. No, it’s not the nickname that makes her heart leap into her throat in a way she'd thought she’d grown out of, it was the cocky way the words rolled off the speaker’s lips. The self-assured ease with which he’d entered her cafe, swaggered up to the bar and called her out when her attitude and every last ounce of her body language had been designed to push people away.

Adelie closes her eyes, willing the apparition to go away. The scar bisecting her left eye pulls at the lid covering the milky white orb that sat useless and unseeing in the socket.

A sharp whistle sounds. Adelie's shoulders draw up tight, spine snapped ramrod straight like she’d done when lining up for inspection.

“Hey Pockets, turn around and say hi to an old friend.”

 _An old friend_.

Was it ever that simple?

“Hello Sargent Mayfeld.” She turns slowly. The intruder makes a face of disgust as if she'd just sprayed leachate in his mouth. Ozzie, her cook, shoots a questioning look over the flat top stove. All it would take was a quirk of her head and the zabrak would have Migs Mayfeld out the door, ass first, into the sand. She shakes her head. The zabrak shrugs and turns back to cooking breakfast for the lone diner. 

The food at her place was shit - utter bantha dung - but it made for a good cover.

“Haven’t been a Sergeant in a long time, Sweets.”

Another pet name. He had an arsenal of them.

“I thought your memory was better than that? Or has it gone to rot out in the backwater?”

Two years spent on the front lines together followed by twice that apart and he still knows how to get her hackles raised.

Adelie plants a foot and use the other to pivot, still as sharp as a razor’s edge, as if she'd never been discharged.

“The last thing I remember telling you was I never wanted to see you again. Maybe it’s _your_ memory rotting in that dome piece of yours?”

“I’ve never been much for promises.” He shrugs. Something flashes in those blue eyes, eyes she’d once adored, but he turns away before you can begin to decipher it.

His boots thump softly as he walks in one big slow circle, his eyes tracing the chipping paint and warped tables.

“Love what you’ve done with the place. It’s got that Mos Eisley chic going on. I hear it’s all the rage in the Triple Zero.”

She squares her shoulders. He was a few years older, but he was the same old Mayfeld. Still solidly built and half a head shorter. She huffs gently as she remembers the first time she'd ever had to stitch him back together.

_“Not the size of the aak in the fight but the fight in the aak, Sweetheart”_

More attitude then sense. 

He's heard her say it more than once. Kriff she’d told him that - in not so many words - the first three times he’d asked her out for a drink. Migs Mayfeld was nothing if not patient. A sharpshooter through and through. One day she'd finally let him cross that line. A bloody battle. Heavy casualties. Bone deep sorrow. A bottle of gut rot fire water in his empty tent. 

“If you’re not here for breakfast you can always come back for lunch. Either way, order or get out.” Adelie turns back around and tries to act like she couldn’t still feel his eyes boring into her back, or hear the way he smiled when he spoke again.

“How about some ardees? I hear you’ve got the best.”

Karking seven hells. 

Her heart falls from her throat to the pit of her stomach, the sudden drop leaving her body shaky and feeling sick all over. Of course he hadn’t been here to see her - even though she didn’t care - he was just here for what she could offer. She wonders if he even knew it was her guarding the pot of credits at the end of the rainbow.

The next words fall from her lips like a script, “I don’t get a shipment til next week.”

A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, “maybe you’ve got some in the back?”

Double kriff. He knew the code.

Ozzie catches Adelie's eye before glancing at the lone patron. The dark skinned zabrak nods as she gestures to the back. He’d keep any new comers busy.

“You’re right. I think I do have some in the back.”

Mayfeld is already strolling toward the kitchen door as Adelie turns to lead him back through the double doors, trying to stay out of range. She didn't want to know if he still used the same aftershave, the one she’d patted into his skin after helping him with a shave when they'd been able to sync a weekend of leave up together.

She'd never had much luck when it came to the men, and particularly not Migs. He catches up before she can step into the small cold storage freezer in the back. The door slides shut as she heads with purpose for a box of frozen nerf so old she can’t be sure it doesn’t predate the Empire. Behind it, her fingers dance over a small keypad. A gentle click sounds as a rack of produce swings forward. Adelie steps back quickly to miss the durasteel shelves, running instead into a solid wall of muscle behind her.

A sharp breath weasels its way from her lungs as his hand falls to her hip. Hot breath teases at her ear as she pulls out of his lazy grip.

“You used to like me behind you.”

Maker, he may have forgotten she'd never wanted to see him again but he sure hadn’t forgotten how to work her last nerve. 

Slow inhale. Slow exhale.

Just get the transaction done. 

“I used to like a lot of things that were bad for me.”

“You wound me darling.” The humor in his voice grates on her nerves.

Taking a step down, Adelie heads through the hidden door into the short tunnel below without acknowledging him. The rack closes behind the pair, tight enough on Mayfeld’s heels that he has to make a little hop forward to miss being hit. She huffs a laugh. Serves him right.

The control panel for the next door pops easily. Mayfeld's sharp blue eyes bore a hole into her back as she steps forward and allows the retinal scanner to do its job on her good eye. The red laser descends over the bright green or before the door pops with a cool hiss.

“Climate controlled and air sealed,” she explains without turning, “safe and secure for all the toys you could ever want. You got a shopping list?”

Adelie allows herself to slip into business mode. While people didn’t know her as Pockets anymore the reason she’d earned the name hadn’t gone anywhere.

Imperial medic wasn’t a glamorous job and the pay was less than desirable. She’d signed on the dotted line before she'd had any clue what she was signing up for. _Karking recruiters._

What the Empire shorted her was made up with the credits out of the pockets of fellow troopers.

Guy from Dantooine wanted a box of candy that reminded him of home? She got it.

Lieutenant Junior Grade wants some Corellian Whiskey? It only cost her a week’s pay.

Squad 336 wants some girly holos of a very specific sentient nature? Easy enough and _very_ lucrative.

Her ability to know and procure what people wanted - often before they knew they wanted it - didn’t disappear along with a medical discharge. She still always had an extra sabacc card up her sleeve, pockets never empty.

“I got a few things in mind-“ his voice trails off as they enter further into the room. His stunned silence makes brings a smile to her face. Smug. That’s what she felt. She'd made plans with Mayfeld had talked about a whole other life outside of the control of the imperial army and he reneged. He broke his promise and - she was willing to admit - her heart. She was proud to show him that she'd done what she’d set out to do in spite of him.

“You’ve done good for yourself Starshine.” She can hear it, genuine admiration. For some reason it doesn’t feel the way she’d hoped. There’s no pride. She’d imagined this moment before, imagined rubbing his nose in it like a poorly behaved massiff. Hips rest back against the low counter arms crossing over her chest as Mayfeld turns in a slow circle. His eyes travel from floor to ceiling before they stop on her. Adelie swallows hard.

His eyes are still the prettiest blue she's ever seen, piercing and warm despite their icy hue. Fine lines have worked their way into the corners, not just when he smiled but when he looked her over with that quiet haunted expression she'd seen on too many vets faces. Memories were dangerous. She wonders which ones he was thinking about now.

A laugh slips from his mouth as he scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Mayfeld-“

He takes a hesitant step, watching her response, assessing his next move. She's thankful when he stops.

“What is it you’re looking for?”

A pause and then…

“I got a friend, new ship needs to be outfitted with some…” he waves a hand idly at a wall of blasters and a case of thermal detonators, “fun stuff.”

Adelie tries to bite her tongue. Really she does. Migs Mayfeld owes her nothing. She didn’t care…

Except she did.

“Is it that twi’lek?” It was meant to be strong and accusing but kriff, she sounds small even in her own ears.

Mayfeld recoils, eyes wide. “Xi’an?”

“If that’s her name, then yeah. Is this for her because if it is you can take your credits and-“

“Pockets, baby…”

“Don’t _baby_ me.”

Her hands drop to her sides as he moves forward, slow steps even and careful like spec-ops on a mission.

Deflate is an understatement. Her body wants to fold in on itself to get away from the way he’s looking at her, like he's trying to figure a problem out.

“Pockets, Xi’an and I were never a thing. It was just business. I swear. How did you even hear about that?”

“I heard a lot of things. Information is almost as lucrative as blasters.”

“Then you probably heard how I went looking for you. After Burnin Konn. After all our- After Hess-“ He can’t get the words out and, just for a second, Adelie fights the urge to reach out and touch him. He’s got a beard now, starcherry blonde, and she wonders how it would feel beneath her fingertips.

“I didn’t-“

“No you didn’t, because you disappeared off every known star chart. I looked for you. Kriff Pockets, you gotta believe me. I wanted to make things right.”

He’s so close now, one tiny step and she could be wrapped up in him.

“I still hate you.” The words come out in a whisper and Mayfeld laughs, a dark bitter thing.

“No you don’t.” His eyes narrow at the rebuke that follows.

“I do. I-“

His hand on her chin silences Adelie. Gripping her between his thumb and forefinger he doesn’t allow her to turn or look away. “You’re mad at me, yeah, that sounds about what I deserve but you don’t hate me any more than I hate you.”

He moves slow, or maybe it’s not him but time itself that slows. Mayfeld gives her every opportunity to pull away. She doesn't and then his lips are on her, rough and chapped against her own soft ones. 

Migs had always known how to make her melt and the years apart hadn’t dampened that. Adelie sighs against him. His lips quirk in a small smile as he redoubles his efforts. It’s too much energy to stay mad. There will be plenty of time for that later. For now, muscle memory takes over. It’s been so long since she’s _felt_ anything.

Heat blossoms in her chest as she cups his cheek and he presses forward, eating up the small distance between bodies and pressing his body against her. His beard prickles against the tips of her fingers. He’s warm and alive under her touch. He's not dead, not ashes on Burnin Konn. He's not rotting in a New Republic jail. He's not laying with a smoking blaster wound to his chest. None of the horrible nightmares she'd had over the years when her dreams had haunted her.

She hiccups out a soft sob.

“It’s ok, baby girl. I’ve got you.” The same thing he’d said that first drunken night so long ago. He'd had her then and she doesn’t question that he had her now.

“It’s been too long.” It’s not a fond reminiscence.

His lips disappear, reappearing along again along her jaw. She allows her head to tip back and to the side. She can feel him hum against the column of her throat.

“That’s an understatement.” 

Heat surges between her thighs as his mouth latches to her pulse point. Teeth nip as she moans softly, head falling back. 

“You still make the prettiest sounds I’ve ever heard. Do you think you’ll still call my name out when you cum?” He laughs lowly at the needy sound that bounces off the walls. “Maybe we should find out?”

The durasteel counter is cold through her pants but Adelie hardly notice as strong, weathered hands squeeze the back of her thighs, kneading lightly before lifting and setting her gently on it. His narrow hips fill the space between her legs before she even realizes she'd spread them for him.

This is a dance they'd done dozens of times before. On Coruscant, and Dantooine, and Corellia-

“Babygirl… _Adelie_ … tell me this is ok?” He buries his head against her shoulder. Adelie gasps at the first prickle of his teeth as they nip at her collar sharply. “Come on honey- say it.”

“Mayfeld…”

Cool air hits her skin where his mouth had just been. Chills trickle down her spine and gooseflesh prickles where his mouth had been slowly stoking the fire inside.

“Not Mayfeld. This isn’t a battlefield. You don’t start acting like it’s one now.” His voice is sharp. His eyes are pinning and intense as they bore into her own.

“Migs-“ It’s a breathless whisper. “Baby please. Don’t stop.”

He may have remembered her buttons, but she certainly hadn’t forgotten his. He melts at his name, sharp edges smoothed and worn away. Leaning forward, Adelie nuzzles against his cheek until he turns his head. The lobe of his ear sits gently between white teeth. Migs entire body shudders as she pulls softly. 

“Migs baby…”

Adelie wonders for a split second if it’s his name or the _baby_ that does it because in the next second he’s pulling at her shirt, working it over her head like getting it off is his one mission in life. 

The thing is Adelie isn't any better, no more controlled than he as she's pulling the scarf from around his neck and desperately working at the buttons of his shirt. Hands fall away as he pulls the shirt roughly away from her body and then they’re back to his, pushing his own offending clothing off his shoulders. He shakes his arms out of it letting it fall carelessly to the ground before pulling the white tank underneath over his head. Adelie, left in a bra with cool air licking at her skin, stares at the firm, solidly muscled man in front of you. He was never ripped or sharply defined but he’s naked frame had always made her mouth water. Her eyes trail down from chest to navel and further, following the fine trail of ginger hair til it disappears into his pants.

“Like what you see?” He never shuts up. It’s hard to believe she could forget. Adelie rolls her eyes as she grabs for his belt loops and pull him back into the crux of her thighs.

“I like it better when you’re quiet,” she murmur against his lips.

“Ain’t. That. A shame.” He manages each word out between the press of his rough lips to hers. Fingers creep up her spine and tangle in the hair at the base of her skull. There’s a gentle pull when she tries to turn away. The sensation draws a low moan from deep in her chest. His free hand runs down her chest, skimming the tops of each breast. A soft cry echos out as he pinches one hardened peak through the fabric bra. Adelie’s back arches into the touch.

“Never forgot how you liked it” he mumbles, “Sweet girl always liked it a little rough. You still my sweet girl? Still go weak for me?”

The former medic refuses to answer. She might fuck him right now, right here but she won’t give him that satisfaction.

“Always said we were gonna take a vacation to Scarif. Saw those pretty blue waters one time and I knew I wanted to fuck you on that beach.” He reminisces. It’s a random thought but it brings back the memory of him after that rotation, taking her roughly in the medical supply room, telling her about his plans to make love on the warm sands with the waves licking at their feet.

Adelie presses forward, licking into his mouth. She needs him to shut up. Her tongue slides along his. A low growl reverberates through his chest. He still chews the same gum and the hint of mint assaults her senses as he fights for control. Teeth sink sharply into her plush lower lip and she cries out. He swallows down the sound as he soothes the bite with his tongue.

“Scarif is gone.” She mumbles as his mouth pulls away. His hand cups her jaw, thumb rubbing along her swollen lip. Adelie opens her mouth and let’s the tip of her tongue flick over it. Migs groans.

“Want something to suck on Starshine? My girl still like having her mouth full?”

Her core weeps arousal. It wasn’t fair that he could still do this. It was fair to make her want so badly. He pulls his thumb back and Adelie chases after it. Migs laughs darkly. 

“Say it, Pockets. I’ll give you everything I know you need just… give me this.”

The blue of his irises are nearly obscured by the blown black of his pupils. His chest rises and falls, she knows her is doing the same.

“Baby…”

“I’m right here darling. I’ve got you remember?” His voice saying those words makes makes her want to sob. The emotion swelling up is too much. Her chest feels tight, her skin on fire. She needed a distraction. 

“Please let me suck on your finger? I want you to fill my mouth up.”

The smile that graces his face is nearly feral as his thumb slips back to between her lips and then into the soft heat of her mouth as she opens for him. His hips twitch against and every nerve ending in her core lights up as pleasure sparks. Migs white toothy grin changes to a snarl as she sucks lightly at the digit.

“So good…” 

Adelie watches his eyes drift shut and his head tip back, his Adam’s apple bobs as she hums around him only to have the sound turn needy as he pulls away. Migs doesn’t leave her wanting, his thumb is replaced with two fingers that Adelie begins to suck as soon as they enter. She barely notice his free hand fumbling at the clasp of her bra. It’s not until he’s grunting _take it off_ that she realizes it’s even open. She offers him big, sweet eyes - the ones that used to get her anything she wanted - as the garment slip from her arms.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard sweetness,” He grunts appreciatively, “gonna make you feel me for days.”

He gropes for a breast palming and gently kneading while he watches her continue to take his fingers. He fucks them in and out of her willing mouth slowly. His hips grind against against her pelvis. Adelie gags lightly, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

“Kriff.” He pulls away suddenly, chest rising and falling as his breath comes out hot and heavy. “Don’t pout, pretty baby.” He soothes. Adelie's displeasures is obvious on her pouting face. “Not ready to be done just yet. Also, I haven’t gotten my taste yet.”

Migs Mayfeld was a tit man from as far back as she can remember. The sharpshooter used to joke crassly that they were his favorite bullseyes. The first time Adelie had ever stitched him up she’d caught him trying to catch a peek down her top. 

Some things never changed. The wet slide of his fingers trail over her other breast, circling pebbled nipple. He leans in and she can't drag her heavy lidded eyes as he glances up. He doesn’t look away as his tongue flicks gently. Adelie arches as a wave of desire paints her body in a pink flush. Her center clenches uselessly around emptiness.

Time becomes a mere idea as it's passage loses meaning as Migs goes to work. His mouth slides from one breast to the other bathing one nipple in wet heat before abandoning it for the other. The contrast between his hot mouth and the cool air leaves Adelie panting, the breath catching in her lungs when he groans. She's sure she can't take it anymore then his hands replace his mouth and he plucks and twists the hard peaks until she can't help but cry out his name.

“Never loved hearing my name until I heard it come from your mouth.”

The hard line of his desire pressing against her tummy through the layers of separating clothing, confirms what he's saying. 

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, leaning in and nuzzling at her throat. Her arms band around his neck him as she rolls her hips experimentally.

“Maker… I want you,” She admits. His grip tightens at the words.

“I should make you say it again.” His voice cracks as her hips roll against him a second time.

“What you should do,” Adelie moans breathlessly, “is shut up and fuck me.”

“Music to my ears,” Migs mumbles against her skin one last time before pulling away and beginning to unfasten and shuck his pants. Adelie doesn’t take the time to appreciate the play of muscles in his arms instead sliding off the counter and getting her own done away with. They meet back together, mouths slanting over and finding one another's. 

Migs’ hands find her ass and squeeze, pulling his body in close. His erection presses against her belly and… Maker… it’s been so long and Adelie isn't sure she can wait another second.

“How are we-“ he begins but she cuts him off.

“Table? Wall? I don’t care. If you’re not inside me in the next minute-“

He shuts her up with a kiss as he lifts. Muscle memory guides her legs as they wrap around his waist. The breath wooshes from her lungs as her back is slammed against the wall. Adelie ignores the cold shock and the way the blasters rattle on their hangers to her right. She doesn’t care. Migs lines the blunt head of his cock up, slipping through sopping folds. His body weight holds her in place.

She chokes out a moan as he presses his hips up, slowly sheathing himself inch by inch. It’s torture. It’s maker damned torture. He moves so slow, looking down and watching their bodies joining together.

Impatient, Adelie arches and roll her hips, forcing more of him inside. Migs grunts and looks up. A bead of sweat has gathered at his temple. Adelie remembers the feel of him; the shape, the smell, the warmth of his skin under her fingers like it hadn’t been a lifetime since she’d last touched him. A tense smile pulls at his mouth as he stills.

“Ya miss me baby girl?”

She tries to think of a snappy comeback. Banter had always been her way of deflecting - his as well - but right now she can’t think of anything smart to say so she goes with the truth.

“Every damn day.” 

The coarse smattering of ginger chest hair tickles as he crushes his mouth to hers. The fight for dominance lasts only a second as she falls into the old habit of letting him take point. He was always a great leader and that hasn’t changed as his tongue brushes past her lips and strokes against hers. 

Desperation bubbles up, matching the same energy he’s feeding into her. His hips slowly withdraw, leaving her nearly empty before snapping up. She gasps into his mouth and he swallows down the sounds greedily. He snaps up again stealing the breath from her lungs. She tears her mouth away from his, her head thumping hard against the wall. her hands grip his shoulders tight, blunt fingernails leaving reddened half moons in their wake.

Migs’ mouth drops to her exposed throat as he finds a punishing pace. His mouth covers her hammering pulse. She squeals at the sharp pinch of teeth and then the soothing warmth of his tongue as he sucks at the bitten skin. There’s going to be a mark in the morning and she finds herself growing wetter by the moment just thinking about it.

“Kriff…” The broken grunt takes Adelie by surprise. “Sweetness… Maker I missed you.”

“Migsy…” Adelie moans out the nickname he’s always hated. “Baby… I need it harder- want to feel you tomorrow.”

“Want to remember my cock buried inside you?” he grunts, filling her completely with each thrust before leaving her nearly empty and doing it again. She circles her hips matching each thrust, grinding against him in a way that sends sparks shooting up and down her spine. He always did have a filthy way of announcing during their times together.

Adelie's no slouch, either.

“Missed the way you fucked me. Nobody-“ She gasps quietly in his ear, “nobody since you. Knew nobody could fuck me like you.”

Migs hips stutter, the rhythm falling off. He lived for praise and as far as she was concerned he earned every bit of it. 

Adelie leaves one hand on his shoulder and lets the other run over her chest, twisting and pinching her nipples. Migs presses his forehead against hers, his eyes watching how she works the dusky rose peak.

“That’s right, baby girl….” he groans and she knows he’s getting close, can feel it in her the way his muscles tighten under her hand. “Look so pretty playing with your tits. A fucking dream... Starshine. Gonna fill you up, ok? Gonna watch my cum dripping out of you. Just like old times-“

Stars above, she loved his filthy mouth. 

Adelie feel the tell tale coiling of pleasure tightening in her own gut, the warm gush of arousal soaking her thighs as the former Imperial sharpshooter draws her closer and closer to the point of no return. 

“So close…” she pants, noses bumping, “gonna cum-“

Migs snarls as his orgasm over takes him and Adelie follows a second later as she feels the first pump of release. Her vision whites out as the coil that had built up in her belly explodes. Her body goes limp and pliant as the waves of it wash over her, milking and draining her of every ounce of energy. Migs bears the brunt of her weight as he works them both through their release.

She can feel him pulsing as she comes back into herself. The sound of his ragged breathing matching her own. Adelie tilts her head, placing a soft kiss to his lips. He finally stills. His hand cups the back of her head, fingers flexing in her hair then tipping it forward. His lips are warm against her forehead as he places a sweet kiss there before sliding down and kissing the lid and scar over your sightless eye. It's a salve for a battered soul. her heart clenches and she fights back the tears that threaten to gather in the corner of her eyes.

It takes his arms around her to keep her in an upright position as her legs unfurl from around his waist. She feels like a newborn fathier tottering on weak spindly legs. Like he promised, the merc leans back and watches the trickle of mixed release stream down her thighs. Weakly, Adelie bumps her closed fist against his shoulder.

“You’re filthy.” 

“I like what I like. What do you want me to say?” He sounds nearly as wrecked as she feels, absolutely wrung out and utterly sated.

When she's finally steady they both make quick work of redressing. As she finishes pulling on her shirt Migs presses into her again. This is when he says he has to go. When it all goes back to that time when he'd stopped existing. It's been less than an hour and that time seems so long ago. Adelie sighs against his lips as his hand tangles in her hair. She doesn't want this to be over. His kiss is filled with a sweetness she’d almost forgotten he possessed.

“Your friend, the one with the new ship? Do they expect you back anytime soon?” There’s hope in her voice when she finally speaks, like a naive child who hadn’t seen her share of war and heartbreak. 

“I think we have some more time to catch up and talk,” he hums, pulling her against his chest. “Lots of things to talk about.”

“I know a place with a bed and ‘fresher.”

“You always know exactly what I need, don’t you Pockets?”


	2. Chapter 2

3 ABY

Sometimes you made the shot of a lifetime. Sometimes you didn’t.

Sometimes you made that once in millennia shot as Rebel artillery was destroying your nest and you went tumbling ass over blaster down a ravine with half a ton of loose debris and rocks.

You couldn’t win them all.

Migs got this. He understood it like he understood his unfortunate short stature or the hairline that had receded for too early in life. Those were the breaks.

You either lived with it or died with it and he was fully set on living until he was old and shriveled.

Some days it just sucked.

Today was one of those days.

“We got a live one coming through. Clear a table, will ya?”

The voice of his squad mate, Crikes, was too loud on his right as his weight pressed heavily into Smitty on his left. The rough outer rim accent bounced around in his bucket like a stray blaster bolt.

Kriff his head hurt.

Everything hurt actually, from his head to the tips of his toes. The slide hadn’t been that bad. Seven meters? Maybe ten? It was the sharp obsidian stone that had come down with him that had done him in. The razor sharp black stone had bludgeoned and gouged his armor, weaseling its way into the cracks and under the plastoid plating. It cut at his skin with each move he made. If the stims hadn’t helped numb him up he’d probably have passed out when the assault droid had helped yank him from the rubble. His gauntlets were both cracked and he could feel a cool breeze coming through the cracks in his back plate. He’d liked his armor. Command wasn’t gonna take to kindly with having to replace it.

It was nice to pretend his biggest concern was getting a new set of plastoid requisitioned. 

“Hey medic!” Crikes’ voice cuts through his thoughts, “I said we need a hand over here!”

“Maker… do you have to yell so fragging loud? I mean-“

“What are you going on about?” Looking back he’s never sure what it was that he noticed first, but he likes to think it was her voice. Like an holomodel fantasy out of a good spice trip, she shuts that Hutt humping Crikes up, marching over with her hands on her hips and scowl on her face.

“We got an Imperial war hero here.” Crikes sounds chastened, but Migs doesn’t bother to look over to see if his face matches what he’s hearing because he’s in the presence of a fragging angel.

“Yeah? Look around. Got a lot of _heroes_ here.” Sarcasm flows from her pretty pouty lips like water from a fountain. She sweeps her arm toward the other beds and the piles of bloodied plastoid littering the small field hospital. “This one ain’t any better or worse.”

Migs frowns under cover of his helmet. For a while he’s been wondering if he might have some bleeding going on somewhere. He feels a bit woozy when he turns his head too quickly to follow the angel as she grabs a datapad off a nearby cart. He was better then a majority of the scum around him. He was a sharpshooter, best of the best, and the bastard who single-handedly brought down the pair of x-Wings decimating their ground troops.

He tries to tell her as such but the words don’t come out of his mouth in any coherent thought. Angel freezes, looking up from the datapad she barks to his squad mate and Migs suddenly feels his bucket being pulled from his head.

“Designation number trooper.”

It’s an order not a question. He didn’t like orders, even from his own superiors but she’s damn pretty and his head hurts…

“Trooper? A number?” Angel looks up from the datapad. There’s concern on her face. She’s scanning his injuries. The ones she can see. Were they that bad? Migs reaches up and feels something warm and sticky against his temple.

“FO-593” Smitty offers for him.

“593… got it…” she takes a step closer, setting the datapad down and pulling gloves from her pocket. She’s got the prettiest hazel eyes, long lashes. Migs wonders if she’s seeing anyone. It’s probably one of those civvie doctors that signed on…

“593-“

“Mayfeld. It’s Migs Mayfeld.” He clarifies, ‘cause a pretty girl like her should be saying his name.

“Alright, Mayfeld, what happened?”

“He saved our asses is what he did!”

Crikes again. Maker, if the bastard kept stealing his glory he was going to deck him. Once the room stopped spinning.

“You know what?” The Angel looks about as amused with Crikes as

Migs felt. “I think it’s high time you two go get some rations in you and leave Mayfeld and I to our own devices.”

Smitty elbows Crikes, the plastoid of armor clattering as he tips his head toward the entrance.

“I’m good boys,” Migs offers the other two field operatives, “Let me get some alone time with the pretty girl.”

He ignores the raised brow directed his way and the crossed arms that follow. Nausea rolls through him as his buddies wander back the way they came.

“Frag… I think I’m gonna be sick.”

She does well. Manages to miss the first splash of vomit. The second retch hits her shoe.

“Son of a bitch… Maker fragging-“ 

The angel has a mouth on her. He could get used to that. Migs uses the sleeve of his under armor, exposed by the shattered plastoid to wipe his mouth.

“Sorry about that, Sweetness.” 

Her eyes narrow as she reaches behind him. “My name is not _Sweetness_. I am FM-111 to you trooper. Specialist Coronette if you’re lucky.”

The words slip out, some verbal diarrhea to go along with what he was starting to think was a concussion. “I am lucky and you’re beautiful.”

“That’s it-“

“Pockets? Have we got an issue?”

Wait- was that a-

“No Coric, I’m good.”

The older man looks at Migs and Migs looks right back. No shit. A clone. You didn’t see that everyday. Guy’s got a head of close cropped salt and pepper hair, looks real dignified. He’s also… glaring? Ok yeah, that wasn’t good.

“If he’s giving you trouble I can-“

Angel’s…. Specialist Coronette’s face softens as she looks at the clone. Migs feels a little jealousy percolate deep down - accompanied by the occasional flip of his stomach. She pats the other man’s cheek fondly and he gives her a soft look.

Some guys had all the luck.

Migs closes his eyes as the world takes a big spin. He doesn’t mean to groan but the axis has tilted and the poles have just flipped and… Fek… he really is starting to not feel good.

“Hey… Mayfeld?” The voice is soft and Migs focuses on the sweet, silvery words. Slowly he opens his eyes and notes that Coronette, is at his side looking more concerned then she has the entire time he’s been in the damn med bay. Over her shoulder the clone medic gives his own appraising look.

“You got this Pockets?”

Migs sees irritation flash in sharp green eyes, not just green but, like, Endor. So bright and alive there wasn’t any way he could think to describe them other than the greenest Kriffing place he’d ever seen in his life.

“I’ve got it, Sir.” Her tone is sharp but the clone, her superior, doesn’t seem to take offense to it. She must not just be blowing smoke. At this point he doesn’t give a wamp rat’s ass. He really just wants to call it a day, catch a cycle worth of sleep and lay in bed til the gut-rending nausea goes the fek away.

“Uh-uh,” she tuts, irritation melted away, “can’t fall asleep on me just yet. You haven’t even shown me a good time yet.” She teases and Migs wills his eyes wide open.

“You’re flirting.”

“Maybe… or maybe I’m trying to keep you awake because you’ve got a concussion. You’ll never know.”

Specialist Coronette pokes and prods, shuffling him toward the edge of the gurney. “Wanna go somewhere more private?”

“Trying to get me all alone, beautiful?”

She huffs. It sounds half amused. He can work with that.

“I’m trying,” she grunts, looping his arm around her shoulder and manhandling him into standing, “to get you in a private room so I can assess your wounds without the whole battalion seeing you stripped down.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” His head spins at the sudden change in momentum. “I’m not that kind of man. You gotta wine me and dine me before-“

She twists under his arm and sharp pain shoots through his side cutting off his words more effectively then any shushing ever could. 

“Easy Mayfeld.” He hears a familiar voice but can’t place which slimy barve he knew it came from. “You can’t handle that one.”

A pair of voices, masculine and feminine, grunt in agreement as he and his medic slowly hobble past and to a clean, empty ‘room’.

It’s a room about as much as a room as a troop transport is a luxury yacht. Four ceiling to floor curtained walls block it off from the other rooms and the larger, open floor of the hospital. He manages to collapse onto the exam table as the world takes another vicious whip around. This time he manages to spew in the bucket shoved under his nose.

He apologizes after he finishes. “Thanks. You know, you keep showing me basic human decency like this and you’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

Coronette is pulling clean gloves on and hunting in a shallow drawer. She arches a pretty brow in his direction as she finds a pair of shears. “I have to clean up whatever mess you make. Don’t confuse decency with laziness on my part.”

“Whatever you say, Pockets.”

Her shoulders tense for a moment and then she takes a deep breath and lets the bait he’s laying out go to waste.

“I’m getting this armor off you. ‘Fraid it ain’t doing you any good anymore.”

Migs glances down at the cracked plastoid. His pauldron is long gone and both pairs of vambrace and gauntlets are thrashed. There’s so much under armor and skin showing, Migs isn’t really sure how they’re still even on him. Pockets manages to get them off without much to it and little input from the guy wearing them. She begins on his cuirass and Migs thinks of half a dozen smart ass remarks about getting his clothes off, but there’s something going on under the armor and each time she begins working at the cracked and twisted chest piece it steals the air from his lungs.

“Karking hells,” he curses lowly. 

“I’ve almost got it…” 

Migs takes a deep breath and holds as still as he can. It kriffing hurts, burns hotter than two suns over Tatooine. Just when he’s sure he can’t handle a second more of it, the plastoid falls away in two pieces. It’s like a pressure he hadn’t realized was on his chest has finally been removed and he can breathe-

“Son of a mudscuffer-“

Migs doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong. He can feel it. Warmth spreading and staining the under armor across the left side of his chest. 

“Karking thing was putting pressure on-“ she trails off again as she retrieves the shears from her pocket. She’s efficient and wastes no time slicing up the front of his under armor. The black fabric falls away from one side and clings to blood staining his other. Coronette doesn’t stop moving, flowing from one spot to the next. She doesn’t stop talking either.

“Fek. Fek. That’s not gonna fekking come out in the wash-“ 

He could laugh but she’s pulling the clinging fabric away from his chest and pressing bacta soaked gauze into the laceration. If that didn’t burn like the wrong end of a burner’s incinerator he didn’t know what did. 

“Damn it! Is your kriffing processor pickled?! Warn a guy!” He’s all bark and no bite at the mercy of the medic who continues to press hard on the wound.

“Shut it 593.” It’s grunted out as she continues to press with one hand and reach across him with the other for Palps only knew what. Sharp words fizzle on his tongue as he catches a glimpse of pale flesh down the top of her scrubs. Fek. He really loved a pretty pair of tits and judging by the rounded tops he can see and the slight jiggle as they move, Coronette’s were perfect. It’s better then any painkiller he could imagine… until she’s leaning back and catching the cast of his eyes.

“So are so kriffing lucky. You slimy little nerfherder- if I had two free hands.”

He should feel bad about being caught but it's been a day and Migs really can’t find it in him to give two flicks of a banthas tail.

“Not my fault, maker gave you a gorgeous rack and Imperial uniforms don’t hide it.”

He winces as she yanks the bacta soaked gauze away, blood beginning to well up again immediately. She doesn’t warn him before pressing the gun into the open wound and squeezing the trigger. Bacta foam fills in the area as he hisses, sealing the laceration. She doesn’t stop to make sure he’s ok before she’s spinning and grabbing more supplies. A bacta patch gets slapped over the quick dry foam.

“Weasly stormtrooper scum…” she continues under her breath.

“Aww come on now, I’m sorry.” He tries to offer a weak smile but her back is turned as she furiously enters data onto a pad. “I really am. When’s the end of your shift. I’ll buy you a drink?”

The anger that flashes in those forest eyes when she whips back is the sexiest thing he’s seen in a standard cycle. If the stims weren’t beginning to wear off and his body beginning to hurt to Malachor and back, he’d be getting stiff in what was left of his armor.

“You think I’d have a drink with you?”

“Come on sweets, what really matters is if you think you’d have a drink with me.”

Her eyebrows skim her hairline. “Are you kidding me? Give up already. Karking little-”

“Not the size of the aak in the fight but the fight in the aak, Sweetheart.”

“Not in your life, Buckethead.”

Her ass looks almost as good in her scrubs as her tits but she doesn’t give him a chance to say so before she storms out.


End file.
